As Seen Through A Mirror
by Scorpia710
Summary: The spell was supposed to give him a laugh, or at least some blackmail. That's why he thought it would be fine to include Snape in his new discovery. But the surprise at Potter's less than luxurious living conditions with his Muggle family, was nothing when compared to what Draco felt when he saw the puddle of blood on the wooden floorboards.
1. Draco's Expectations

**Author's Note**: I've been withholding this for a long time out of nervousness, so if you like it, please review! Constructive criticism is **always** welcome!

In the end, the spell did not work at all the way Draco had expected. Instead, it exceeded his expectations in every way, though, at first, it seemed it would not work at all.

He'd taken to stalking towards the library almost daily when thoughts of his approaching mission would plaque his mind. Perhaps somewhere among the multitudes of old tomes and other scholarly books, would be the answer to the hundreds of questions he was unable to ask others. To ask for answers would be taken as a weakness, and any weakness accidentally shown to Death Eaters and their acquaintances was the same as revealing a pulsing jugular to hungry wolves. To the others, it did not matter that Draco was the son of a well known Death Eater. A Death Eater that had once held a place of honor among the Dark Lord's inner circle. No, if anything, it only seemed to make them more eager to catch the first glimpse of failure.

Already bets had been placed on how long he'd last in this newly exposed and dangerous world. Why give them more ammunition by asking for help?

His mother's heart had already been broken upon the news of his mission. There was no need to ask why he had been chosen. For his father's lacking obedience when it came to the Dark Lord's orders, Draco had been chosen to kill the second most powerful wizard of all time.

The only blessed reassurance Draco had left, and one he constantly brought up to himself in times of doubt...was this: Dumbledore was only the _second_ most powerful.

Unlike those foolish enough to follow Dumbledore's ways of thinking, Draco was on a path that would lead him to be at the right side of the Dark Lord. The most powerful Wizard of all time, one who had defeated death itself several times, if what Draco's father said was true...and he was not one to doubt his father's words. Though it would most certainly prove to be a challenge, Draco would have help, for surely the Dark Lord did not _want_ him to fail.

There were also whispers of his mother going to great lengths to also provide him assistance. However, Draco was not so ready to accept that help...he was no where near ready to believe that he would need it.

After several days of putting off the research he would have to seek out, the overwhelming urge for him to quickly find an easy solution came to him while watching clouds float by his bedroom window. It was easy to be lazy when no one was around to convince him to do otherwise, but now was not that time. He had been given a task, and as much as Draco hated it, it was in his best interests to complete that task in as quick a fashion as possible all the while protecting his own rump.

There had to be something that would help him to achieve his task, some spell, a long forgotten curse that would kill that old coot without Draco being too heavily involved. He could commit a murder the old fashioned way, a bit of poison slipped into a drink, some powdered hemlock stirred into his morning oatmeal. Even though, it was not exactly what Draco originally had in mind.

He had wanted to look into Dumbledore's eyes when he killed him. He would be the last person to look upon the live face of Albus Dumbledore, and he would see something that few, if any, had ever seen in the man's face. Fear.

Draco was not even sure if the Dark Lord in all his power had seen Dumbledore scared.

It would be the moment that his life has thus been based around. Until then, he'd been treated as a boy, as the son of a powerful man...but after he killed Dumbledore, he would be looked upon as a powerful man in his own might.

Then he would take his place beside the Dark Lord. His father had done the same a long time ago, but Draco had the chance to be far more powerful than his father ever had...especially considering how recent events had cast his father into the Dark Lord's bad graces.

Draco gritted his teeth at that. The exact events that had transpired at the Ministry of Magic that horrid night were not completely clear to him; but, he knew enough to realize that Potter alone could be held responsible for his father's current residence in Azkaban.

He would get revenge...but, that was another matter for another time.

For now, he would be content searching for spells to aid his mission.

The library itself was kept clean, but the books had not been dusted in at least a decade due to the dangerous spells placed on several. One wrong spell tossed carelessly in the direction of a shady tome could result in painful abrasion, or death as one house elf found out shortly after Draco had been born. There were still blood stains in one far corner of the room that could not be removed from that incident, his mother had tried both magical and Muggle means of doing so. It was a sore topic, not often brought up, and Draco did his best to avoid that area of the room.

The spell that now took up so much of his time had been found completely by accident, he'd been flipping through yet another volume of older spells used to maim, or fatally injure one's foe. The yellowed page fell out from between a re-telling of the death of Racouris Dimpsey, whom had suffered a deadly blow to the head via the corpse of a dead cat. Draco had to give him points for creativity, but the mental images made him glad he had not eaten anything for this mornings breakfast.

On the next page, there were several spells created specifically for the use of cutting off digits. Perhaps they had been used as torturing techniques, but Draco could not think how cutting off Dumbledore's little pinkie would aid him in anyway.

The yellowed page that had fallen out was littered with a neat handwriting, the language looked familiar to Draco, who had briefly been schooled in several languages, though only French and Latin had been consistently taught.  
Stained and mistreated by previous owners, the spells on the page were indiscernible.

Along with the spells, there was a detailed drawing along the bottom right-hand corner. It described a man peering into a...window? A serious look was clearly painted on his face, and through the window, it seemed he was watching another person.

Intrigued, Draco read out the spell in rough Latin. He really did need to practice, if only foreign language was taught at Hogwarts he wouldn't have this problem.

Eyes narrowed, Draco scowled down at the words and moved the tome over to one of the many reading tables. The stains seemed to have been placed in the worst possible location, though the spell itself was perfectly viewable, it was hard to read the description as what exactly would take place after someone read out the incantation.

From what he was able to determine...it seemed the spell would allow him to view someone secretly.

Draco smirked, no doubt this was a spell mostly used by peeping-Toms.

Or, extremely bored people. The last thought suited him just fine, and provided a good excuse as to why he would soon be trying to use a mysterious and possibly dangerous spell. If anyone was to ask, he'd raise an eyebrow, (a trademark Malfoy look) and say blandly, "I was simply bored."

At the back of his head, Draco knew he should be firmly searching for a spell that would save his arse by killing, or at least making it easier to kill, Albus Dumbledore. But, at that moment, curiosity overruled his sensibility.

"_Sino oculos meos videre periclitatur hostis_!"

The Latin words rolled easily off his tongue, it seemed that just like riding a broomstick, some things just were not easily forgotten.

It was a shame then, that nothing happened upon saying these wonderfully pronounced words.

Frowning, Draco reminded himself firmly that not all spells were easily cast. There was sometimes a difficult twist of the wand involved, or, in more difficult, and ancient circumstances, a dance.

There was no way he was going to waltz though, and so Draco leaned back over the book and drawing to search for what he had not included in the incantation.

What was the caster depicted in the drawing thinking so seriously on?

"Why does everything have to be so bloody difficult," Draco sighed, leaning back in his seat to think.

When the answer came to him, in a much longer time than he was proud to admit, Draco could almost curse at his own stupidity. Honestly, if it took him so long to think of something so simple, how was he ever going to defeat one of the greatest Wizards of all time?

Obviously, he had to think of the person he would want to view. This was true for most viewing spells, or at least, the two he knew of that were not banned by the Ministry of Magic. One of those viewing spells could only be used for children within a few meters distance, to make sure they had not wandered off too far. The other was not well-known, and was used by suspicious husbands and wives to see just how true their spouse was about their whereabouts.

Jumping up from the chair, Draco delightedly began to pace and ponder...just who would he spy on?

His somewhat girlfriend came to mind. He had not seen Pansy in quite a long time, though her letters came quite often and were always filled with sweet sayings and sugar coated niceties.

Yes, it would be nice to see her...and maybe catch her in a state of undress, he thought with a smirk.

Once again, Draco cast the spell, all the while thinking of Pansy clearly but fiercely.

It was clear in a few moments of intense thought, that it was not going to work. Maybe the spell had something against him, or perhaps it could feel his inner reasons for checking on this particular person.

Sighing, Draco gave in and thought about Crabbe while casting. By this point, he just wanted to know if would work.

It didn't.

Goyle, Nott, and in a daring moment, Draco even tried Professor Snape. It did not work. The bloody spell had got his hopes up, and then it did not even work.

Furious, Draco strode out of the library, tearing the old parchment in two and throwing it to the ground as he went.

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Three hours later, he was back. In his wake, he'd left several very troubled house elves, a broken coffee table, and...somewhere along the way, his immense frustration had run its course.

Much calmer, but just as disappointed, Draco smoothed out the parchment that was now in two pieces, and tried to put them back together with a mending spell. It worked, but a line was still visible where he had ripped it in anger.

Sipping from his tea, which had been provided by an eager house elf, Draco leaned back in the comfy recliner, and held the parchment in one hand and studied the drawing.

It was quite detailed. The disdain for the man in the glass was clear in the caster's face, as well as his concentration. The man in the window did not appear to be having a great day, he looked weather worn and tired, bent over wearily as he trudged along a rough, rocky path.

The artist really had outdone himself, even the two men's outfits were detailed. One man's family crest was clearly drawn on the back of his cape, it looked familiar, and Draco thought he remembered it from some gory history.

Upon further examination of the man in the window, Draco noticed another crest, visible over the man's breast. It was different from the one the caster wore, and Draco tried to remember why it was so familiar.

Something about a war between the two families...they were enemies, sworn to hate each other just because their family did. It had ended in blood and death, as all stories such as that did, if Draco remembered right.

Pushing the parchment away, Draco rubbed his eyes and tried to think of a reason to not go to bed early. He had found nothing but an unusable spell and a mountain of depression waiting to collapse on him in the library today.

Maybe tomorrow would be different. He stood up to leave, with a tired glance at the two enemies forever depicted in that drawing...and that is when a curious thought struck.

Perhaps...perhaps the spell was only for people who hated each other.

That would explain why it had not worked on Pansy, she adored him, and Crabbe and Goyle were eternally faithful, Nott had his moments, but he was okay...and Snape. Well, no one could ever determine what he thought of _anyone_, but Draco was sure the man did not hate him. In fact, he'd been spending a odd amount of time around Draco recently.

Now the question was, who did he hate?

Three answers immediately came to mind. All Weasley's, you might as well consider them a group, much like geese, cows and other dimly witted creatures. Then Granger, and of course, that four-eyed idiot...

Potter. His stupid friends had left him and the other Slytherins an a rather embarrassing situation, those...things, the _stupid flying things_ the Weasley bitch had cursed him with still made him shiver with unease when his mind drifted to that particular memory.

His and Potter's last few meetings had not been satisfying at all. Draco wasn't used to having anyone laugh at his threats. He was a Malfoy; his name meant power. Anyone that laughed at his father one day meant that they'd lose their job the next.

But, Draco wasn't his father, and he had not yet gained the kind of respect his father had.

Thinking about his proud father in prison made Draco wonder though...would he still hold the same amount of power when he got out?

But...that kind of thinking made him uncomfortable, and Draco shook the thought away by aiming his mind at something else. In this case, giving Potter everything he deserved.

If the spell _still _didn't work for him...well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.

After so many failed attempts, Draco had partly memorized the spell, and he used the page as reference for the last few syllables.

Perhaps part of him had been losing faith in himself, or perhaps deep down he thought the spell would never work, and he was just grateful for an excuse to avoid certain other recent study topics...therefore, when the blank space in front of him seemed to shimmer, Draco was thoroughly stunned.

He stumbled back, remembering gory tales of spells gone wrong, but nothing upsetting happened.

The shimmer in the air glowed like crystals in the candlelight, and all at once the air hardened to a cool, glass like surface.

Swallowing his shaken nerves, Draco stepped forward cautiously. Through the glass, he could see a small, sparsely decorated room.

It was painted a bright, peach color, and the furniture (if it could even be called that) was extremely lacking in both looks and stability.  
Draco was taken aback by the appearance, wondering what in heaven's name could this _dreary_ little room have to do with Harry Potter?  
He knew that Potter lived with his Muggle relatives, everyone did, but even as low as Muggles were, _this_ place was surely not the common Muggle bedroom...right?

But, the surprise at the less than luxurious living conditions was nothing when compared to what Draco felt when he saw the puddle of blood on the wooden floorboards.

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Harry Potter had several things to ponder that summer, and he had both been dreading and looking forward to his life as a recluse in the Muggle house others would ignorantly refer to as his 'home'. He had found himself aching for moments alone while in Hogwarts, shying away when his friends would bring up Sirius and trying to keep the conversation dedicated to matters he was not emotionally attached to.

Judging from past years, Harry had thought what with the threat given to the Dursleys at the train station, that they would make themselves scarce. For the most part, that was true. Seemingly offended and scared at the same time, both Vernon and Petunia had avoided him, only leaving him a list of outside chores to do. A list so long and detailed it was sure to take him the majority of the summer to complete. It also assured that Harry would be mostly out of the Dursley's sight as long as they kept their blinds tightly shut while he was outside, and head firmly turned aside when he did come in.

It really was sad when his only blood-related family went to such great lengths so that they would not have to even glimpse him. It made Harry grit his teeth, a firm voice pointing out that his real family would never forget him, and were probably writing letters to him now and asking how he wa,...but his heart still ached for the affection he'd never feel. Not from them.

His food, he fetched for himself, and as the Dursleys had taken to eating out a fair amount lately, the kitchen was almost always empty...both of people and of food. He had a very small stash of non perishable items hidden under that one floor board in is room, and when he found nothing to eat in the kitchen, he would make his way upstairs and pick out some snack from his little stash.

Besides the fact that he no longer had Sirius in his life, there was also something different about that summer at the Dursleys than he could have accounted for. This difference was proving to be a bigger problem than he had previously thought it would, and Harry could only blame himself for that. He should have known by now to never underestimate people, even supposedly helpless Muggles.

It seemed, Dudley had found himself a new friend.

Unlike his other friends, that were willing most of the time to follow Dudley's steps, and let him lead...this one was about as easy to bend as a rod of iron.

His name was Brent, and he'd had it in for Harry since their first meeting.

"You must be Dudley's cousin, Harold or some'thin like tha. I'm Brent, in case you haven't already heard."

Harry had heard the footsteps behind him as he knelt in the back yard at Aunt Petunia's favorite rose bush, but, he hadn't thought anything of it. Last summer, he had someone checking up on him every five to ten minutes, why should this one be any different?

The voice was dismissive, uncaring, and reminded him of another person back in the Wizarding World that he personally considered a snooty brat.

Harry leaned back on his haunches, wiping beads of sweat away from his brow as he peered up at the unfamiliar person.

Unlike Piers, a long time friend of Dudley's, this one was sturdily built with a thick neck, thicker arms, and rather dominant stance as he stood over Harry, hands loosely placed in his pants pockets. When one took into consideration that Harry, in comparison, couldn't seem to even gain weight much less muscle...well, maybe Harry should have been a bit more wary of irritating him.

As it was, after that quick glance, Harry turned back to his weeding. He wondered irritably why in the world Aunt Petunia couldn't just get a gardener while he was in school instead of letting the flowerbeds go to Hell.

"Piers said you weren't fond of talking...unless provoked," after that irate mutter, Harry was sharply kicked in his ribs. With a sharp inhalation, Harry forced himself up from where the kick had almost toppled him over onto his back.

He stood up, a scowl on his face.

Even standing at his tallest, the other teen still had a good few inches on him, not to mention a few stone, though he was not overweight, Harry was just...well, underweight.

Had there been any doubt this one was a friend of Dudley, it had disappeared when he'd decided that bullying was how best to get Harry's full attention.

"Listen, I've got work to do, so why don't you go _play_ with someone else. Someone that can actually be bothered to give you a second glance and match you in the short temper department. Perhaps a toddler or a pet?"  
Harry hadn't practiced his verbal sparring skills since Malfoy had accosted him at Hogwarts, and he found an almost dead flame inside him flaring to life.

The other boy raised his eyebrows, a grin lighting his face. "Looks like Piers is right, for once," he said, in reference to his earlier statement. Harry's ribs tinged with pain, and he glanced down to see the other boy was wearing steel toed boots. An odd choice, but effective if you wanted to cause pain.

No wonder it hurt more than when Dudley wanted to kick him around.

"Seriously," Harry said, crossing his arms defensively. "Mrs. Figg has several cats, surely one will let you play with a bit of yarn-or, if you prefer, I bet Dudley will even fetch you one of their little jingle toys. You know, the little balls with bells inside?" Harry waved one cupped hand back in forth, as if shaking the imaginary toy.

"Shut it, Potter."

Harry blinked as if surprised, and threw his hands up. "Sorry, sorry-you just seem like someone who would enjoy jingle toys. They don't take much intelligence to handle..." he trailed off, but not before he let his gaze settle on one of Brent's un-tied boots.

Harry's gaze narrowed, and he almost grinned. There was a small strip of toilet paper that trailed behind Brent's left boot, the one he hadn't kicked Harry with. He hadn't even noticed that, he'd meant to bring attention to the fact that Brent apparently couldn't even tie his shoes.

A blush rose up on Brent's cheeks as he followed his gaze, and Harry knew he should stop...but it was like Piers had apparently said, he was a quiet guy...until provoked.

"Ahh, sorry. From your apparent inability to tie your own shoes, you are clearly a shoestring man. You and Mr. Puss will get along great, that's his favorite toy too. Or perhaps you prefer the old fashioned roll of toilet pa-!"

A growl was the only warning he got, before a clenched fist flew at his mouth.

Harry ducked, and then flew for the backyard door. Fortunately, of the few things Harry thought he was good at, running away was at the top of the list. As a child, he'd run from Dudley and his merry band of bullies and from Aunt Petunia's sharp raps atop his head. As a teen, he'd run from man eating spiders, and authority...and Voldemort.

Yes, if there was one thing Harry knew how to do, it was run.

Even so, he had barely slammed the door shut when Brent's body slammed into the fake wood, shaking Harry bodily. As Harry hastily did the locks, his hand shaking with pent up nerves, he could hear Brent breathing heavily from the other side and could not subdue the laugh that bubbled out of him.

What a thrill...though, he counted himself lucky that the Dursley's were all gone out for lunch.

Now Harry realized he was wrong to think that was the last time he'd have to deal with Brent McDowell. He had given Dudley a new surge of confidence, one that destroyed the progress he'd made with his diet and made Harry's life more unpleasant than he had foreseen.

Though Petunia and Vernon still kept their distance, with only cold glances and muttered comments thrown his way, Dudley had been searching for ways to stir the pot of contempt that had before then just slowly been bubbling.

Harry thought it odd that Dudley's fear of being enchanted in some way had worn off so quickly. It was also odd that after mostly ignoring Harry, Dudley and his friends had taken up the task of making his life horrible...but Harry hadn't thought about it much until _it_ happened.

The second instance of Brent's influence came right after Harry had arrived back from the grocery store with Aunt Petunia. She'd forced him into going, saying that Dudley did not want him around with all his nice friends over, and that he could just be locked into his bedroom instead...but Harry knew that Dudley would just find a way in if he wanted, and then there'd be no adults around at all to stop any fighting. He'd placed all the groceries away, and was heading upstairs to his place of refuge...when he heard their snickers.

Glancing down, Harry could see Dudley, Piers, Brent and a couple other boys hanging out in the living room doorway. All of them with smirks, or innocent faces, as Harry peered at them cautiously. Then their was Jimmy, a new member of their little gang...and he looked so nervous that Harry frowned.

"You okay there, Jimmy?" he asked cautiously, his concern only increasing when the other boy only jumped, nodded hastily...and then seemed to turn a little green at the quick movement.

Harry eyed him, and then decided he didn't care. He'd seen the group from his window as they sat on the lawn talking and laughing profusely, all the while sneaking drags on a cigarette that they shared amongst themselves...but he hadn't really thought they'd turn their attention to him. Mostly they stayed around Dudley's house to get free food from Petunia, who wouldn't dare refuse Dudley's friends when they might go back home and tell their mothers.

Harry suddenly felt like going upstairs was a big mistake...but to go back downstairs might prove to be even worse. It seemed one of Petunia's acquaintances _had _seen Harry's group of friends bidding him fair well at the train station, and had mentioned that she was 'surprised she kept such odd company' and that she'd '_never seen _such an odd color of hair before on a woman,' and did Petunia 'plan on changing her own color?'

Every word made Harry feel like sinking into the ground. God, why wouldn't she just _shut up_? Of course she had no way of knowing that her prattling tongue was going to make Harry go without a few meals he really needed. The lady had not once glanced at Harry, but that didn't matter, the damage had been done.

As soon as they were in the car, Petunia had let a mouthful of air go. It hissed out between her teeth, as she clenched her hands on the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.

"I've spent years in this community-" she choked up, and Harry's eyes got wide. He hastily looked out the window, away from his aunt's teary eyes. She didn't say another word the entire drive home, and Harry had taken the groceries in silently as she quietly hid herself in the bedroom.

Harry quietly finished going upstairs, feeling several sets of eyes on him all the while. What could possibly be worse than walking down the stairs into their awaiting arms? Plus, Vernon would be home in a matter of minutes, and then he'd hear what that lady had said to Petunia.

With that in mind, Harry rubbed a hand over his suddenly tired eyes, and pushed the door open into his room and stepped inside. He shut the door with his foot, an instinct that came back to him every summer and stopped rubbing his face to look around his home for the next few months.

That was when he decided, yes, there were worse things than walking towards Dudley and his fellow bullies. Worse even then facing his Aunt's hateful gaze as she relayed today's market adventure to Vernon...

Because, neither of those involved a huge puddle of drying blood on his floor and a cat carcass at the edge of it.

Harry felt bile rise in his throat, and covered his mouth and nose to block out the smell of death. The doorknob pressed into his back, but he could not remember taking a step back.

What was worse, he recognized the cat as one of Mrs. Figg's favorites, and suddenly knew exactly how this had came to be. To make it worse though, is that Harry felt that doorknob turning, and then someone was trying to push it open.

"Harry-" it was his Aunt, and she already sounded impatient. "You need to finish the weeding, and Dudley says you broke his game system-open the door this instant!"

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Draco had backed into a chair during the throng of confusion that followed that horrid sight. He sat down heavily. _So much blood..._

His hands were shaking where they lay upon his lap, and he tried to stop it by grasping the arms of the chair. The mirror spell continued to work, a barely noticeable sheen on the surface the only thing reminding him that it was indeed a spell. Closing his eyes, Draco took a few calming breaths.

How was he supposed to handle murder if even the sight of blood caused him to go into shock?

The chair was studded with silver embellishments, and Draco ran his fingertips over them pensively to calm himself. Finally, when he found his reserve, he opened his eyes and stood to confront the scene that had shocked him so.

Yes, that was a lot of blood. A puddle that had begun to dry at the edges.

And what had this blood come from...Draco eyes trailed to the side and saw the dead cat. Almost instantly, Draco felt the need to hold his nose, but of course, the spell did not allow him to smell what he was viewing, and in a moment such as this he was extremely grateful.

The cat's fur was mottled and ratty looking. The bright orange coat seemed somehow diminished in death.

Potter's room was noticeably normal, if a bit pathetic. It had to be Potter's room too, there was a trunk with his initials shoved up against one wall, a white T-shirt thrown carelessly over it.

An owl cage sat atop the sad little desk beside the bed, though there was no owl to be seen. Pictures were taped over the bed, drawings and letters-probably fan mail. God, Potter was so vain.

Draco was leaning towards the spell, so enraptured he was in his examination of Potter's room-and that was when he heard the footsteps. There was a door to his right, and it opened a moment later. Potter walked in.

Immediately, Draco straightened up, sneer appearing on his face at the sight of him. But his automatic adjustment was for nothing, Potter could not see him-wouldn't have been able to even if he hadn't been currently rubbing his face with one hand as if trying to wipe away a months worth of grit.

He let loose a little sigh, and then shutting the door with his foot looked around the room with a resigned face.

That was, until his eyes drifted down.

Draco took delight in how wide Potter's eyes got, how the breath got caught in his throat.

Potter stepped back in his disgust, much like Draco had. His hand flew up over his mouth, little choked sounds protruding from his throat.

Then, from outside the door, a new voice.

"Harry-" The door knob jiggled behind Potter's back, and the irate voice continued. "You need to finish the weeding, and Dudley says you broke his game system-open the door this instant!"

Potter went from looking ill, to looking pale as a ghost, and Draco had seen a fair amount of ghosts in his time.

"Ugh," Potter dragged out the word, sounding like a man awaiting the noose.

"What-what are you doing? You are already in a huge amount of trouble. I won't have any funny business in my house, Potter!"

The spell had not even been in place for five minutes, and already Draco had more to think of and to possibly use against Potter than he'd ever had before.

"I think he's done something terrible, Mrs Dursley," a sad, regretful voice said also from outside the door.

Potter had been combing his hands through his hair, but now he stopped and turned around to throw the door open.

"You did this!" He yelled at someone standing just out of sight, his voice more shocked and filled with disgust than Draco had ever heard it. "Don't you bloody _dare _try to blame it on me! _How sick are you_-how-_why_-"

There was a huge gasp, either someone had seen the cat, or was shocked at Potter's tone of voice...Draco was inclined to think it wasn't the latter.

The high pitched voice that had already seemed angry, was now horrified and outraged.

"What have you _done_?" It ended in a shriek, and Potter stepped back into the room, and now Draco could see the horsy woman that stood in the doorway. Her hands were on her hips, cheeks pale of all color except for some badly placed blush.

"I think your nephew has some problems Mrs Dursley," the same voice offered gently. "We heard him muttering strange words in here, like..._abra cadabra_. Kind of scared me, to be honest...especially after yesterday."

Mrs Dursley, whom Draco took to be Potter's aunt, turned slowly in place, dread written on her face.

"What happened yesterday?" She sounded like she did not want to know.

A theatrical sigh was given, and Draco watched curiously as Potter, hearing the sigh bit his lip and clenched his fists.

"I was just trying to get to know him...and so I tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Hey, you must be Harry!" all friendly like, ya know? And...Mrs Dursley, it was so scary. I was suddenly on my back! Like a big wind had swooped out of no where and hit me!"

Potter's shoulders slumped as the speaker said these words, his eyes closing and his head bowed. His teeth had left bright red marks on his lips, where he had bitten through the skin in his attempt to stay quiet.

"I even have bruises," another stuttering sigh, then, "and to think what he's been do'in with poor Mrs Figg's cats...I read once that people practicing bad things like, er, _witchcraft_,"

Mrs Dursley's whole body jerked.

"...actually use animal blood. Do you think that's what he's do'in?"

Draco knew many potions that used animal blood, but not from any kind of animal as common as a cat. Whoever this was, was obviously untaught and extremely ignorant about such matters.

But, if his wanted effect was to thoroughly stress out Mrs Dursley, it certainly had worked.

Her mouth was as tight as a newly wound toy, and her eyes were hard. She answered in a very quiet tone, but each word carried bad news for Potter. Her eyes never left his face, as if turning away would mean something bad happening to her...like Potter stabbing her.

"Dudley...darling, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your friends to go home now. Vernon will be home soon...and I need to have a talk with your cousin."

A new voice replied, "Okay, Mum, come on guys. Harry's got to be punished." Snickers broke out in the hall, and Draco found himself slightly revolted that anyone could laugh now...even with the satisfying prospect of Potter getting what he deserved.

The words "Poor Mr Puss," were heard as the boys disappeared away down the hall, and then down what was presumably stairs.

Malfoy looked between the two remaining in the room.

Potter looked as ill as he had after the Tri Wizard tournament, when he'd appeared out of thin air with a dead Cedric Diggory desperately clutched in his arms. And his Muggle aunt? She looked ready to make Potter wish he _was _in Diggory's place.

Yes, Draco thought, this spell had certainly exceeded his expectations.

**Author's Note: It's Friday, yay! **I'm very excited about the prospect of this new Harry Potter fanfiction, I plan on it being a long one...that is..._if _anyone wants to continue reading it? If so, please take a moment to leave a review! I greatly appreciate them, and reply to all. I'm working full time at a Daycare center, so bear with me, my days are long and I never know what will happen that day at work, :) Again, please review! Why do you think Brent is such a bad egg? How is Draco's characterization so far compared to your idea of him? When do you think Snape will get involved? And, most of all, **do you want to read more? :D**


	2. A Rather Appropriate Turn of Events

**Author's Note**: Thank you for reviewing! I greatly appreciate the constructive criticism and comments!

The truth of it was hidden behind several doors in his mind, but deep down, Harry knew with a certainty that Uncle Vernon wasn't going to kill him. And if Vernon, with his habit of raging before thinking wasn't going to kill him, then his aunt certainly wasn't.

However, even as he reassured himself, Harry could not deny that his aunt looked ready to kill him, or at least seriously maim him.

Her eyes, which had never held fondness when she was looking at him, suddenly held nothing. It was as if this new horror in their lives (this time in the form of a dead cat) had killed something inside her, it had taken her to the edge. He'd seen the same look in Sirius's eyes when he hadn't know he was being watched. It was the look of someone who had forgotten himself, a deep aching tiredness, a longing to walk away from it all.

Seeing this, Harry found that he was afraid. Not just for himself, but even more so, he was afraid for his aunt.

"Aunt Petunia?" His voice was soft and she left the room without meeting his eyes. He was sure she had not heard him. Still, Harry stood there, careful not to look down at the blood stained floor as he awaited to see if his aunt would return.

Within five minutes, she did, and with her she brought a cardboard box, a trash bag and several cloths made from retired T-shirts of Dudley's that had been passed to Harry and then much later, once they had started to rip, been turned into cleaning rags.

"Clean this up. There's a bucket for water in the bathroom." Her voice was emotionless, but Harry saw the twitches in her hands and knew that this was a facade of calmness. Under the surface was a torrent of emotion that was barely held in check.

She turned to leave, shoulders tight with tension. Harry found himself desperate for some sign from her that would show her belief in his innocence. Why hadn't she even asked where the cat came from? She hadn't asked him anything, just heard the words of Dudley's new friend and immediately accepted them as the truth. Shouldn't his words count for something? Her disdain of him had never been felt more heavily. It was almost suffocating and he couldn't help himself from stepping back a bit, as if distance would ease the weight that had settled on his chest.

She was almost out the door when Harry blurted the truth out, his voice almost desperate, "Aunt Petunia! I didn't do this-"

He'd hoped she would be surprised, and say, 'Well of course you didn't! If I had even the slightest thought of you doing something terrible you'd be out of here in a quick minute. No, of course you didn't do it, Harry.'

What she did next killed those thoughts. The speed in which she turned around surprised Harry, but when she raised her hand and struck him across the face, he was shocked. Any words Harry had thought of to defend himself were suddenly nonexistent, as if the sharp sound of her hand striking his cheek had scared them off. She'd never slapped him before.

"Don't." The one word was harsh, and stung as much as the slap had. Because behind that one word was disbelief. Petunia followed it with a small shake of her head, her eyes rimming with tears and then as she glanced at the empty owl cage in the corner of the room, fear.

She fled the room.

Staring after her in surprised hurt, Harry's already miserable mood dampened beyond repair. Why was it everyone on Privet Drive seemed intent on harming him? Their words, actions, the things they didn't say, the things they shouldn't have said...even some of the looks they gave, all of it focused on causing him pain. Seeing the fear in her eyes stung something fierce. Memories of his accidental magic and their responses to it rose up from the far corners of his soul where he'd hidden them, locked them away because the truth behind it brought forth such a burst of emotion that he thought he would choke from it.

To not be wanted was a terrible thing.

Eyes shifting to the carcass at his feet, Harry wished he could feel numb. But no one had granted him that yet, not when Cedric died, not when Sirius died and left that guilt filled pit in his stomach...and it wasn't about to happen now.

Harry clenched his fists together, his teeth grinding with such a ferocity that his gums were sure to be sore later.

What the hell was wrong with Brent? What kind of sick, messed up mind did he have to think of doing something so dreadful? There was no way around it, Brent had to have a hand in killing that poor cat. Even if he hadn't done it himself, he must have had someone do it for him. Had he been able to believe that this was just some poor animal hit by an automobile and later found by Brent, Harry might not have felt so sick. But this was the same Mr Puss that Harry had mentioned while trying to antagonize Brent yesterday.

_"You and Mr. Puss will get along great," _he'd said. The result of those words now lay at his feet. Was he now to be held responsible for the death of his godfather and for a cat, if not out loud by someone than at least in his own head? Harry closed his eyes slowly, relishing in the darkness behind his lids that held the strange, cruel world from view.

It was only with pure willpower that Harry made himself focus back on the matter at hand. Would Brent really do this by himself?

Had those few words exchanged between them really brought about this hatred? For only a deeply settled hatred would provoke the other boy to go to such lengths, not even Malfoy or Snape had gone this far to try to make Harry's life unbearable.

But perhaps, they just hadn't known what actions would result in the most pain. That brought another question to mind; how had Brent known that the best way to get back at Harry was to make his relatives distrust him more? And worse, would he try to do it again, this time with even more drastic results?

Harry swallowed, and slowly knelt to the floor to put the cat's body in the black plastic bag. Covering his hands with the trash bag, he picked up the carcass the same way Petunia had taught him to put up raw meat without getting it on his hands. The comparison made him feel like gagging, and the smell didn't help. As he picked up the heavy carcass, blood dripped and landed in the already considerable puddle on his bedroom floor. Who knew a cat had that much blood in them, especially elderly Mr Puss.

Next, he left his room on weak legs to go fill the bucket up with hot water. He filled the bucket with the first cleaning product he found, something scented with lavender, and then added a hefty amount of bleach to the mix. He had no desire to get sick from some dead-cat-disease, though that would really just round up the whole event quite nicely.

Snorting in disgust at the whole thing, Harry carried the bucket back to his room and worked on getting the blood off the floor and not vomiting in the process. Man, Ron and Hermione were not going to believe this.  
_"How'd your summer go, mate?" _  
_"Oh, it was fine-until a loony Muggle planted a dead cat in my bedroom and my barmy relatives decided I was doing Dark Magic...so, yeah." _

The rags from Harry's old T-shirt had gone from gray to burgundy. The bleach in the water caused his hands to tingle and ache as he scrubbed at the persistent stain where the blood had started to congeal.

He knew with certainty that the punishment his aunt and uncle decided upon for this new freakiness in their home would only be worse if there was a irremovable stain to remind them of it for the next few years

Sitting back on his haunches, Harry sighed heavily and his low fringe floated up momentarily revealing his scar.

It wasn't a complete crime scene any longer. There was no way an unknowing person could walk in and shout, "Aha! A cat lay there, after dying in a _most_ gory way!" but, there was a large patch of floor a darker shade than the rest.

Maybe it would be different once it dried. If not, then nothing else could be done for it, he'd just have to cover it up with a mat. Harry stood, and took the bucket to the bathroom to dump it down the drain. The red of the water seemed supremely bright as it flowed out of the bucket and into the platinum white tub. Taking precaution not to leave any residue and inspire the Dursley's ire, Harry finally turned to the sink to wash his hands.

It was like he had dipped his hands in red dye, the color had settled on his skin, making every line and crease more noticeable. It was surprising how much this bothered Harry; he'd thought of the figurative 'blood on his hands' before, even quite recently...but to see actual blood on his hands was something else entirely.

For a heart stopping moment, he had a flash of surety that it wasn't going to come off.

Harry increased his efforts, and after using a heavily concentrated liquid soap, the color of his skin returned to normal.

When he got back in his room, it was only to find that the box with the cat inside was gone. Harry blinked at that, and then slowly closed his door, and sat on his bed. He wanted to be ready when Vernon came home so he kept himself turned toward the only entrance.

To calm the emotions stirring inside, Harry reached for his wand that he had hid in a wand holster under the baggy T-shirt.  
It had been a gift from Moody given to him at the train station, 'Don't want to take anymore risks of blowing your cheek off than you need to,' he'd remarked gruffly, and Harry had smiled slightly in return, murmuring his thanks. The Dursley's greedy eyes had burned into his back when they'd seen the generously wrapped gift. The gift wrap must not have been Moody's idea, Harry was quite certain the older man could not have been the one to pick it out due to the gold snitches that glided across the surface. It drew too much attention, unwanted attention, he would have said.

Homesickness creeped into the forefront of Harry's mind again. He missed being around people that actually liked him. People that cared whether he lived or died, even seemed concerned when he arrived back in the Wizarding world skinnier than when he had left it.  
A large portion of the Order had come to see him off, to warn the Dursley's against treating him unfairly...though, Harry had never mentioned that they had a tendency to be unkind. He wondered momentarily how they knew he wasn't exactly thought of as prince-like in his relative's residence...Hermione and Ron wouldn't have talked about it, they didn't know too much anyway.

There was Mr Weasley to consider, he had come to pick Harry up the summer before his fourth year, and he'd seemed awfully surprised that the Dursley's hadn't the slightest inclination to say goodbye to their only nephew.

At that moment, the door to the front of the house opened and closed loudly.

Talking about things getting worse...

Uncle Vernon hummed loudly as he set his briefcase down beside the door, and then made his was past the stairs toward the kitchen where he would proceed to eat his dinner with gusto. After the meal, he would collapse happily in his favorite recliner situated perfectly in front of the television. Or, at least that is what would have happened on a normal day.

Today, unfortunately, was quite different. Having been closed in his room for the past hour, Harry had not thought about how he was supposed to cook. He'd reckoned Petunia would have handled it.

Vernon asked a question, and Harry strained to hear a reply. He almost sneaked to the door to peer out into the hall, but his legs seemed suddenly incapable of any such movement.

It must have been a long reply, for there was no forthcoming sounds of silverware clanging, or pots being bustled about. There was only the quiet sound of his aunt's voice as she talked...and talked...and yes, continued speaking.

The near silence was worse than yelling, at least a raised voice would be a fair warning as what he had to expect.

Harry had just closed his eyes, still resigned to staying in the exact same position until something happened, when the heavy trod of his uncle's footsteps made his eyes open. Vernon ascended quickly, much too quickly for him to be going to the bathroom to wash himself up for dinner.

The door slammed open, bouncing off the peach wall and seeming to vibrate with rage. Harry jerked up to stand warily before his heavily breathing uncle. Vernon stared at Harry, his beady eyes taking in the stain on the floor, and then the wand clenched in Harry's whitening fingers.

A decision flashed in Vernon's face, his mouth tightened with determination and he held out one hand.

"Give it," he snapped.

Harry's mouth dropped a bit, and then followed Vernon's eyes to where they kept glancing...and he had to blink rapidly.

"Er..."

"Give me your..._wand_," though he had difficulty saying the word, Vernon still managed it which only proved just how determined he was prepared to be. The fact that he was even willing to touch a magical thing in the first place spoke volumes. His large purple face was twitchy with nerves, his mustache bristling and moving about enough to make Harry think he was hiding an animal among the many hairs...like a cat.

Harry grimaced. Perhaps that was not the best animal to think of at the moment.

"I..." Harry rapped his brain quickly, his instincts screaming at him that he'd better ruddy not let his wand anywhere near Vernon's large, unkind hands.

"_Boy!_"

"I can't! If...if any non-magical person touches any wizard's wand, an alert will be sent out to the Ministry of Magic, remember them? The ones holding all the power? They'll send out...er, magical police men to find out what's wrong-and probably take your memory away. You aren't supposed to know too much."

There was a momentary stillness to Vernon, and Harry knew he was considering his words and probably imagining large wizards breaking down his door to steal his memories.

"_Fine_," he growled, and Harry mistook that word to mean that Uncle Vernon had given up. "You'll put it in the trunk. I'm locking it away, you won't see it again until you go back to that freaky place."

Harry swallowed, the idea of locking away his wand was like being without his glasses. It would be like wallowing in helplessness. He'd be even more at their mercy than before. Harry wasn't sure he'd survive with those chances.

"But-"

Uncle Vernon seemed to grow in front of Harry's very eyes, but all he did was step closer. He leaned in close and Harry flinched as he noticed the red veins in his eyes, and could smell his uncle's foul breath as he breathed in his face.

"Petunia told me all about today, boy. That woman in the grocery store, the-the neighbor's cat!"

Harry had been sure Vernon would not touch him, but as he spoke and his voice rose, his heavy arms reached out and grasped Harry's arms roughly.

"We've been through enough! Took you in out of a sense of responsibility. Clothed you and fed you, gave you all you could ever need! Taken food away from our own son's mouth in the process-ungrateful!" He gave a mighty shake, his face contorting with rage.

"Now you're _killing our neighbors animals! _And Dudley could lose his friends all because of your unnaturalness-I thought it was bad before, oh no, you had to do this! Well, no more! No, I won't let you tread all over our kindness any longer boy." Uncle Vernon released Harry with a last mighty shake that made him lose his balance.

Harry sprang up quickly from the bed, eyes wide. His wand had come loose and landed on the floor. Uncle Vernon saw, and with a wide grin, he picked it up between two fingers and flung it in Harry's open trunk. While Harry watched, he brought a padlock out of his trouser pocket. He bent down and it clicked into place, ensuring that Harry would not see his belongings again until Vernon allowed it.

Harry had a moment of relief though, at least his wand would still be in his room, even though he couldn't get to it at the moment.

"Don't think I'm leaving this in here," Vernon told Harry with a snort, seeing how he'd been eyeing the trunk. And with that he hefted the trunk up to carry it right outside the doorway where he dropped it. The jarring bang made Harry wince, and Uncle Vernon turned back to him.

"Petunia told me what Dudley's friend said, about you-you tossing him into the air! I won't have you harming my family, or our neighbors! If I was less of a man I'd be tempted to throttle you! After all you've put my family through-taking you in when _no one_ wanted you. You're a freak, boy! Threatening us, trying to make us bend to your wishes. You're to write to those _people _regularly, I will be checking to make sure you don't say anything distasteful about us...and if you do," Uncle Vernon took a huge breath, and whispered the next words harshly, "I'll _break that bird's neck!_"

Harry flinched back, the words lashing out and striking him hard.

"You _are not _to write about this incident to anyone, you hear me boy? No one! You are to stay in this room, and be _quiet_ and _grateful_."

With that, Vernon turned, his chest puffed out as he strode from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. The sound of several locks turning could be heard clearly. One, two, three-honestly, why they thought it would take that many to keep him inside, he didn't know.

It was safer in his room than it was out there anyway, why would he want to leave?

Shaken, Harry sat staring at the door long after the footsteps of his uncle had faded away, and the sounds of dinner being made downstairs replaced them.

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Potter didn't stand a chance in that house. He already looked broken...but maybe that had more to do with the death of his 'flea-bitten godfather' as he'd heard him called.

Draco sat utterly still once again and stared at Potter who was blankly gazing down at the floor. His entire person seemed to radiate resignation, from his shoulders which bent down in a slump of pure dismay to his arms which hung limply across his knees. Even his hands, which Draco had often caused to clench in anger, were lifeless.

After several seconds of staring, in which neither of them moved, Draco found that his glee had been dampened significantly. Instead, a lump of lead seemed to have settled into his stomach causing queasiness and then...confusion. A frown creased Draco's forehead as he realized what had caused this sudden change.

Potter's home situation had made him sad. Damn.

Before he could delve into why he felt this way, a sharp popping noise startled him and Draco stood up and spun around.

"Moppet! Didn't I tell you to knock on the door first? I don't want you invading my privacy without my explicit permission!"

Moppet the house else cowered over the tray he held, eyes not meeting Draco's as he stuttered out an apology.

"No, Master Draco! You isn't telling Muppet to knock first! Muppet is sorry for not thinking of it, so sorry Master Draco!"

Draco waved the apologies away, annoyed that the house elf had not just pretended that he was supposed to knock and taken the blame.

"Just leave the platter and get out of my sight-oh, and Muppet?"

"Yes, Master Draco?" The words were said with quiet defeat, and it reminded Draco of how Potter had sounded so strongly, that for a moment he forgot what he was going to say.

"Er...don't speak of anything you see in this room. Understand? If you even think of it, I'll have you hung up by those horrible ears of yours."

"Yes, sir! Yes, Muppet not be saying a _word_ of Master Draco's magic mirror!"

Draco blinked in surprise, and then opened his mouth to chastise some more, something along the lines of, "I said don't mention it!" Muppet, however, had glimpsed freedom and took it without looking back. He disappeared with a terrified pop.

Aggravated now, Draco turned back toward the mirror and crossed his arms.

How many times had he wanted to see Potter put in his place? Just for once to have a figure with some authority knock him out of his high-and-mighty attitude. More times than Draco could count, and honestly, for a few moments there, watching Potter's utter defeat had given a deep satisfaction. Then, it had flitted away like a butterfly in a large garden.

It was surreal, and strange, and something else...uncomfortable.

Yes, Draco shifted in his chair. He felt uncomfortable having seen that, and he didn't know why.

After several long seconds, the answer came to Draco and it relived him so much that he said it out loud. "I'm hungry!"

Of course; hunger could make anyone do or feel strange things. Even make Draco feel sorry for Potter in the face of his disheartenment. Because, obviously, Potter deserved a lot more than a rough shaking for all the discomfort he had caused Draco alone. The Dark Lord would see to that though.

Draco nodded to himself, ignored the last few tendrils in his stomach that said he wasn't being truthful with himself, and turned to take the tray Muppet had left to the nearest table. Mother seemed to have told the house elves to make up for Draco's current lack of a father with enormous amounts of food. Ever since he'd been imprisoned in Azkaban, dinner had become something for Narcissa to involve herself in. She planned the meals weeks ahead, trying new things that Draco wasn't sure he wanted to try, and there was always too much left over.

Narcissa had stopped encouraging Draco to eat dinner with her soon after the start of summer. She's originally wanted them to dine together and hold the illusion of a whole family...but he grew tired of her remorseful looks directed toward the head of the table. Bland conversation and a never ending feeling of falseness lingered between them. The way it was never mentioned, but constantly there of course made it impossible for Draco to think of anything else.

He had to find a way to kill Dumbledore.

Taking the cover off his meal, Draco inhaled the scent of steamed vegetables and roasted chicken and fresh herbs. He sat down, napkin at hand and utensils at the ready-when he happened to glance up. What was a quick glance up, turned into another stare he was quickly finding himself doing a lot.

Potter had stood up from the wobbly bed, walked around to the other side and was now kneeling on the floorboards. At first, Draco thought he was praying, and that stunned him. But, no, Potter was now leaning forward and reaching one skinny arm under the bed.

Mouth thin with effort, Potter sighed and then lay down on the floor, head almost completely out of sight. He reappeared moments later, wrappers crinkling in his hands and he withdrew a couple of pastries from some hidden compartment underneath the bed.

The bed frame creaked ominously as Potter leaned against it, quickly unwrapping one pastry and inhaling deeply with a contentedness Draco had never seen before on his face. He ate it slowly, head leaned back, and eyes closed. It was like the bloody prat had never had a sweet before.

Why would anyone take thirteen small bites out of a pastry that could easily be finished in six? Draco had never taken so long to eat something so insignificant, he ate with grace expected of him, but not at a snails pace! And meanwhile, his own food was going to get cold. Draco started eating quickly, keeping an eye on Potter all the time.

When he was finished, Potter folded the pastry wrapper up into a small square, and then he looked at the other pastry. A battle was going on inside his head, with the moonlight streaming through the window, Draco could see it even though he did not understand it.

Finally, with a regretful look, Potter snatched up the other pastry and the empty, folded wrapper and stuck them both back under the bed in whatever hiding place he had.

Chewing his chicken thoughtfully, Draco's eyes turned to the small wastebasket in the room clearly within Potter's reach, even sitting on the floor. Why did he keep a wrapper? Didn't he know that could draw all sorts of vermin to his room looking for food? Potter was looking out the window now, his hand rubbing his eyes.

A growl emerged from his stomach, hidden under those horribly droopy clothes. The universal sign for hunger. A sound where when mother's heard it, they worried and ran to feed their children, a sound that when it came from Draco, his friends would suggest summoning a house elf for a snack.

An un-amused smile came upon Potter's face, and he muttered something that sounded terribly like, "Better get used to it," as he continued to stare out at the night sky.

Any appetite Draco had left, dried up just as soon as Potter said those words. His mother's carefully planned meal now seemed outlandish and unappealing. He laid his fork down carefully, and then cast the spell that would cancel the spell. His view of Potter melted away, and yet, he still could not bring himself to eat his favorite custard when Muppet brought it in for him.

It was carried toward him on a silver tray, and the custard itself incased in a fine stemmed glass and decorated with fresh berries and a sprig of mint so green it had to have been freshly picked. Yet, looking at it, all Draco could see was a sticky, unhealthy pastry pulled out from under a bed and eaten with the delight only one who never knew when their next meal would be could have.

"Is Master Draco upset with Muppet? Muppet announced himself first before entering, just as Master asked!"

Draco sighed, feeling ill and confused, "No, I'm not mad at you-but I will be if you don't get that out of here now!"

Muppet squeaked and did exactly that.

Unfortunately, what Draco did not think about, was the fact that with now no Muppet or his dessert to distract him, he had only his own situation to think of.

"Why should I bloody care?" Draco asked himself fiercely.

He shouldn't, was the answer he came up with. What did it matter if Potter was hungry and feeling depressed. Maybe he'd off himself and do the whole Wizarding World a favor. Tension still made his fingers tap a steady beat atop the table's surface, and Draco blew out a breath and closed his eyes.

He was just too soft; that was it, and it had to stop. Death Eaters couldn't be soft, they were respectable and severe, feared and rejected by those who didn't understand. If he was ever going to be one, he had to stop feeling so much, and that meant not caring about those people who were all going to end up dead or prisoners in the end anyway.

This was more than he had expected. He'd hoped to use information on Potter to achieve the highest forms of payback. Instead, he found that Potter was already getting payback, in more imaginative ways than Draco could have imagined. What in the world had happened to make his relatives despise him so?

Draco shook his head, whoever had started that was genius. Had they planted poison in their morning tea and blamed it on Potter, had the cousin been scalped and a razor found in Potter's hand while he was sleeping? Or, had Potter brought this animosity upon himself?

Now that was an incriminating idea. Potter, after years of taking his relatives for granted finally pushes them too far. Isn't that what the uncle had suggested? Yes, that did seem a far more likely concept. So why did Draco feel like he was trying to fool himself?

Gritting his teeth, a horribly un-Malfoy thing to do, Draco pushed himself away from the chair and marched out of the library. There was simply only one cure for a befuddled mind and a tense body; a long bath followed by at least eight hours of sleep. Then, in the morning, he had to start looking for a way to get rid of Dumbledore once and for all. No more peering in on Potter. Draco got caught up in his life too easily, what with all the weird mannerisms of the Muggles and Potter's strange lack of stubbornness around them. He seemed completely different compared to everything Draco had seen in school...and the thought of missing out on some new Muggle inflicted drama was almost too much.

Fine, maybe he could look in on Potter once or twice tomorrow...but no more than that.

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Harry started awake. Disoriented, he wasn't sure what had woken him at first, he just knew it was loud and he desperately hoped it didn't mean more bad news.

The shrill sound of a drill bit grinding into stone continued and Harry slid off the bed. His bare feet touched the floor just as someone spoke outside his window.

"You sure you only want it on _one window_ Mr Dursley? Looks a bit odd, I have to say."

Harry's teeth clenched together, even his sleepy self able to put together the pieces of this puzzle.

"Never you mind that! Just do you job."

Peering out his bedroom window, Harry saw the eye roll of the security man and heard the whispered insults that his uncle on the ground below would never know about. But, he couldn't think too much about that. The bars on his window were back. Even with the early morning light still shining through, Harry's room seemed somehow darker and even sinister.

The grimly sarcastic side of himself thought it was a rather appropriate turn of events. He'd already felt like a prisoner, but now his room was decorated like one too. Goody.

Done with his task, the security man had climbed down his ladder, and was now talking with Vernon on the lawn below Harry's window. The stubborn look of Vernon's face made Harry sure that the conversation involved the price; for a moment, Harry really did feel bad for the worker who was already looking a bit peeved.

Then, someone else caught Harry's eye. They stood on the corner of the yard, starting at the window-no, staring at Harry through the window.

Harry met Brent's eyes and instantly wished he'd turned away instead. He could have done without seeing Brent's slow, thin smile and the glint in his eyes that clearly read, _I win. _

**Author's Note**: Hoorah for chapter two being a rather speedy update! Ready for Snape to drop in? I sure am, :D It's about time for his trademark sarcasm and scathing eyes. I grin just imagining his response to Draco _stalking_ Harry, ^_^ **Please review! **I love hearing your thoughts, and am always looking for ways to improve my writing! Thank you, :D How do you like the length of the chapters? Favorite line this chapter? Everyone have a great weekend!


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